Hill walking....

You'd think I would have learned by now.

When the Irish say, "go and have a wee drink," they probably mean two or three pints.

When they mention we should meet at about half-eight. They probably mean nine o'clock.

If it's going to be a "bit damp," I should probably whip out the rain boots.

Why then, I wondered as I huffed and puffed my way up a cliffside in Glenveagh National Park, was I surprised that the "hill walking club" wasn't about hills at all?

I woke up early on Sunday for my first "hill" walking expedition. (After long reflection and a few nights musing in the mirror about the merits of my nose and other extremities, I chose hill walking over the gaelic football team.) The whole group - about 18 in all, mostly from outside Northern Ireland - piled into a university van to head to Glenveagh National Park, which is actually across the border in Donegal.

After a ride of twists, turns, and drops (most looked a bit green as we tumbled out), we arrived at our destination. A six-car parking lot next to an old cottage in the middle of bogland.

L.L. Bean hiking boots firmly tied, army pants tightly looped, and backpack steady on my shoulders, I started the first portion of our walk with boundless energy and enthusiasm for the afternoon ahead as we ambled down a level, gravel path. We spent some time oggling the birthplace of St. Columb (a pile of grass marked with a cross and a stone with supposed healing powers), snapping some pictures and then headed back to the parking lot.

Geez, I thought, hill walking is for pansies.

The second phase of our hike, however, was not exactly as easy.

We walked for about four miles through "hills" and bogland to wind up at Glenvaugh Castle, perched on the side of a massive lake. And by "hills," I mean miniature mountains, which, somehow, we always seemed to be walking up but never managed to walk down. Just as we'd clear one mountain, three more would emerge in front, leaving me to believe halfway there that we'd never stumble upon any castles. Or people. Or benches. Or the delicious apple tarts that we'd been promised along the way.

As a side note, we also didn't stumble upon any swords, which Ben tirelessly scoured the bogland for. (He went to the Ulster Musuem this week and reported that many medieval battle axes and swords were actually uncovered when the forests were removed from the bogland. I humored his quest to pluck his own from the blackened soil, occasionally stopping to stare into the distance and murmur.. "Is that? Noooo, it couldn't be.")

But alas, as we cleared our final hill (Number 73, I believe), we came out to a paved path around a glistening lake in a mountain valley. Just within our view rose Glenvaugh castle.

{Castle, I would say, is a bit generous. The castle was built in 1920 by Henry McIlheney, an Irishman who moved to America and made his fortune in Tabasco sauce. He came home to build the house and the gardens and left it to the public after his death. It certainly looks like a castle from a distance but when you get closer, it just looks too pristine. I half expected to find a picture of a knight that we could stick our heads through for pictures. Or perhaps a "Medieval Times" restaurant.}

The highlight of the castle, of course, was the fine dining in the tea room. Having bare cupboards at home, the sight of a long line of delicious pasteries and sandwiches certainly made up for the two-hour hike. After downing the sandwich, in fact, I realized that the hike had not really been that bad. All gravel. Just small mountains.

Hill walking, I decided again, really is for pansies.

So, naturally, when Eoin (the head of the club) said they would be taking a leisurely lunchtime stroll up a nearby hill to get a view of the castle, I jumped to join the group.

Stroll?

Hill?

Leisurely?

We left the safety and scrumptiousness of the castle to take a worn path behind the gardens. It went up a hill behind the castle to a looking point and then circled back. It had to be straight up. Seriously, straight up. Seriously, they offered handrails so you didn't plunge to your death. One kid missed his step and tumbled to the rocks below.

Halfway up, I paused to "survey the scenery."

Eion: You alright, Carie? Not turning back already?

Me: Pshh. [breathe] What? [breathe] Ha! You... [gasp] must be jo-[gasp]king. [breathe] I'm a champ. [heave] I might just run the rest of the way up.

[Under my breath] Unless, I mean, it would be cool just to turn around.

Still, I persevered. Smiled for the camera at the peak and decided that if the walks got much worse than this, I might be playing gaelic football.

After our climb, I spent the rest of our castle time surveying the castle gardens (which was, indeed, leisurely) and chatting with the rest of the club. One girl, Amondime, kept asking me questions for the sole purpose of hearing my southern accent, which she called, "proper English."

(No, she wasn't complimenting my grammar. Rather remarking I sounded exactly like an American could.)

Another woman, Helga, grilled me about my reasons for coming to Northern Ireland. By the end of it, I wasn't sure why the heck I was there at all.

Helga: So what will you do with a master's degree in Irish history?
Me: I suppose I could teach.
Helga: In America?
Me: Um, sure.
Helga: Where?
Me: Right. Um. Well, I really like journalism.
Helga: So why not just go straight into journalism?
Me: Well, I also like to study history. And I wanted to study a civil rights movement outside of the American context.
Helga: Right, but how will that help you with your future?
Me: I suppose I could work for the BBC.
Helga: You don't need a master's degree to do that.
Me: Yeah... well... the bus is leaving.

We finished up the day all Irish hikes should... at the pub.

You can see all of my Glenveagh photos here:
http://uk.pg.photos.yahoo.com/ph/cariewindham/my_photos